


Renegades

by romajstorovic



Category: Ranger's Apprentice - John Flanagan
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Gen, not "the royal ranger" compliant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-13 19:35:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29159010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romajstorovic/pseuds/romajstorovic
Summary: the kingdom of araluen finds itself in both awe and fear of a thief known only as 'the renegade'. this man can perform feats ordinary men can only dream of, and to make matters worse, his motivation is a robin hood-esque sense of justice.will treaty has four weeks to find this man before he is hanged. something is wrong in araluen, and the renegade is merely the start.(a rewrite of a fic i wrote when i was 14. it's better this time, i promise)
Kudos: 4





	Renegades

He wakes slowly, savouring the rumblings of the storm around him. His dog, Sable, snores at the foot of the bed, wrapped in more of his blankets than he is. Will opens his eyes and sits up, leaning forward to run his fingers through his fur. Sable leans closer to him in her sleep, and he smiles.

Will gently gets out of bed, reluctant to leave the warmth of his covers. He moves to the window and parts the curtains slightly, then rests his elbows on the windowsill and watches the rain fall. It’s a downpour, and he smiles. Nobody will come to bother him today, he suspects. Nobody wants to be outside in this weather.

Will Treaty closes his eyes and listens to the wind, smiling gently.

The wind wraps herself around the cabin, draping her soft arms on every window pane. She caresses the deck, the door, the roof, searching for a way in, and smiles lovingly. The thunder hums, deep and soft, dancing across the skies in search of clouds to laugh with. He smiles at the wind, humming again, and the wind smiles back. They turn from the cabin to watch a second figure riding towards it. He is on a bay horse, and has a mottled green cloak wrapped around himself. He’s leaned close to the horse’s neck, as if to try and hide from the rain.

“Fool,” says the thunder. “Nobody can hide from us.”

“Of course, dear,” smiles the lightning, dropping down from behind a cloud to meet him. He kisses the thunder gently, and the thunder rumbles happily in response. They hold hands and watch the shadowy figure on his horse. Her hooves match the pounding of the rain, and the wind smiles.

“Oh, little Ranger,” she purrs. “Don’t you know better than to hide from us?” And, just for fun, she pulls his hood down.

The Ranger pulls his hood back up, hiding his auburn hair. He wipes at his face and pats his horse. “It’s okay, Blaze,” he murmurs. “We’re close now.”

She grunts at him, clearly not enjoying the storm, but she knows Gilan hates it too. He’s shaking, and not just from the cold. He flinches every time the thunder rumbles. Somehow, Gilan feels that the thunder is laughing at him.

(He is.)

Ten minutes later, Will is dressed. He’s got two pairs of socks on because he deserves not to have cold toes today, and because he frankly doesn’t care what Sable thinks about his feet. He pulls on his warmest tunic – the soft, woollen one that Alyss had gotten him before her death – and sets about making a cup of coffee. Ah, scratch that, he puts on a whole pot. He’s not going to do anything else today besides pet Sable and ignore his paperwork.

The dog in question flops down in front of the door, sniffing at it. She whines sharply, and Will glances over. “What’s wrong?” He asks her, baby-talking her. “What’s wrong, hm?”

Sable whines again and Will scratches her ears. He stands up and opens the door to see Gilan, fist raised to knock. He nearly hits Will in the face. “Will!”

“Gilan!” Will says, surprised. “What – why – ” He takes a second to breathe and get his thoughts in order. “Did you put Blaze in the barn?”

“Of course,” Gilan says. “I’m not an animal. She’s okay, just pissed I made her go outside in the rain.”

“Get inside, c’mon,” Will rushes. “You’re soaked.”

Gilan laughs. “Believe me, I know.” He steps past Will and sniffs at the pot on the table. “You made a whole pot just for yourself? Greedy bastard.”

Will grins. He’d missed the teasing from his friend. “In my defence, I wasn’t expecting the Commandant to break my door down first thing in the morning. It’s storming to all hell out there.”

The thunder rumbles, as if he’d been listening to the conversation and waiting for them to acknowledge him. (He was.) Gilan flinches, a small, sharp movement that Will barely catches. Gilan closes his eyes and his entire body is taut, like the string on a bow the Rangers love so much.

“If the storm’s bothering you,” Will says gently, “I can always get my mandola out. I’ve been practicing.”

Gilan laughs, less tense now. “I’ll take the storm,” he grins. “Not that I don’t enjoy your lute, but it’s far too early for that. I’m tired as shit, Blaze and I barely stopped on the ride here.”

“Coffee first,” Will decides, turning round. “I have some of your old clothes in the... somewhere.” He gestures vaguely towards his room. “If you need something dry.”

“You still have them?” The taller man’s voice is surprised as he disappears round the corner.

“Didn’t see the point in getting rid of them. I might need them if you ever show up at my house dramatically in the middle of a storm, you see.”

“Very wise,” Gilan calls back. “Thank you.”

Will pours two cups of coffee and sets them on the table. Gilan probably hasn’t eaten since yesterday – maybe the day before, knowing him – so food is next on the menu. He finds some dried meat that he’d been saving for one of his bad days – the days where he couldn’t stop thinking about Halt and Crowley and Alyss and all of the others, the days where it was easier to roll over and stare at the wall than to get up and keep living, the days where the flashbacks from his stint as a slave in Skandia wouldn’t leave his head. Never let Gilan say that Will didn’t love him.

He makes what he would consider a sandwich worthy of Jenny herself, and puts it on a plate next to Gilan’s coffee. He pauses, then gives the man an apple for good measure. He gets one for himself, too, and is nearly halfway through it when Gilan walks back in. He’s taken off all his wet clothes, cloak included, and replaced them with old, dry clothes. They’re a dark brown, and go quite well with his auburn hair if Will does say so himself. Speaking of, Gilan’s hair is _impressively_ long.

“I can tie it in a bun now,” Gilan says cheerfully. “I might do it if it ever dries.”

Will laughs, and gestures to the food he’d made. “Go on,” he says. “I’d wager you haven’t eaten in what, a day and a half?”

“Two days,” Gilan corrects. “I kept forgetting. I fed Blaze, though,” he adds. The last part is very important to him. He takes the apple first and bites into it slowly, so not to make himself sick. “I can’t stay too long, though,” he says. “There’s... an emergency.”

“What’s happened?” Will asks, straightening. He puts the apple down on the table in front of him and looks at his friend. Gilan looks tired, the sort of tired that doesn’t go away no matter how much you sleep, the sort of tired that seeps into your bones and doesn’t let go, the sort of tired that Will knows is etched onto his steadily-aging face.

Gilan takes another bite of the apple and holds it in his mouth, before rummaging through the bag he’d left next to the table. He stands up and hands Will a thick, manila envelope. The writing on the front is neat and nondescript, but it was clearly written by a noble. The ordinary citizens don’t tend to have this much control over a pen.

In black ink, written in print, are two words. It’s addressed to “Ranger Commandant” – Gilan, now that Crowley is dead. The seal on the back is still intact thanks to Gilan’s careful fingers, and it’s made of a dark red wax, almost like blood, with an olive branch stamped onto it. The envelope is thick and looks fairly old. Four years, at least, Will guesses. He turns it over in his hands several times, studying the envelope, before gently lifting the seal and taking the letter out.

“You know the Renegade?” Gilan asks carefully. Will nods, even though the question is rhetorical. The Renegade is a major thorn in the Ranger Corps’ side, consistently stealing from the rich and redistributing the wealth to those who really, really needed it. He was always several steps ahead of the Corps, and nobody had been able to find anything that could point them in any direction remotely close to him.

“This him?” Will asks grimly, waving the parchment at Gilan, who nods.

“It’s chaos,” Gilan sighs, absently tossing his remaining half of the apple between his hands. “We’d got word that he was up near Morgarath’s ruins, in Gorlan Fief, but as soon as we sent people to check it out he stuck Castle Araluen.”

“He _what_?” Will asks, surprised. “How’d he get past the guards?”

“That, my friend, is a very good question. We... we don’t know. It’s like he’s invisible and he can walk through walls. He’s a menace. I found _that_ –” he gestures towards the letter with the apple – “where Cassie’s jewellery box used to be. We have no idea where the box is, and Cassie’s fuming. More about the principle of stealing from royalty than anything else.”

Will does not pity the man who pissed off Cassandra. The woman scares even him, sometimes.

Gilan sighs. “I need your help, Will. You’re one of the best we have, and none of us have even come close to catching him. I’m just about ready to lose my mind and go take a holiday to _Skandia_.”

“I’ll find him,” Will promises, looking his friend in the eyes.

“Good,” Gilan says, a hard look in his eyes. “Because his next target is Redmont."


End file.
